


A Loyal Hound

by Codydarkstalker



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: BDSM, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-13 19:25:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14754842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Codydarkstalker/pseuds/Codydarkstalker
Summary: Cullen is well trained. He knows how to obey orders, even when those orders push him to his very limits. When he joins the Inquisition, he falls into his same habits, taking orders almost blindly, working for a higher purpose, and when the Inquisitor sees this, she's sure he is the right man to lead her army. But where she sees a man willing to do anything, Bull sees someone like himself, someone who needs order. Someone who needs more training.





	A Loyal Hound

A good dog is well trained. A good dog knows how to follow orders. A good guard dog barks on command and bites on command. Cullen Rutherford was always a good guard dog. He had guarded the mages in his circle, he had been loyal to the Templars and the Chantry. He had worked hard, and he had made sacrifices. He had made so many sacrifices, he had been left feeling less and less like a person, he had lost so much of himself. He had given up his family, and then himself, all in his dedication to becoming the ideal Templar. 

When he was young, he had looked up the Templars. They seemed bigger and better than any other man he had ever seen. They had trained themselves into something more than a normal person. Even magic could not break them. It had taken weeks of begging his parents, wearing them down, before they would consider letting him leave to begin his own training. When the Knight Commander came to his home and pleaded his case with him, it was his proudest moment. He knew, deep down, that his family had made the right choice. The day they saw him off, he had dreams of becoming the perfect knight. He had dreams of becoming a man people would look up to, that his family would be proud of.

The reality of Templar life was different than he had imagined. The training was not just of his mind and body, but his spirit too. The endless physical training was easy enough. He was born to ride a horse and swing a sword, devoting himself to combat training was so simple. A man told him to run, so he ran, a man shouted raise his shield higher, he did it, a man told him to fight, he fought until they told him to stop. At the end of some days he would find himself bloody, and so tired he could barely stand under the weight of his armor. But it felt right. It felt good to push his own limits. He paid his dues in sweat and blood.

The mental training was harder. The life of a Templar was one of orders, of rules and endless memorization did not come easy to him, but he knew how to read and write which was more than could be said for many of the other children pledged to Chantry service by their families. His mind wandered from time to time, and his lessons sometimes seemed to stretch on hours and hours in an endless wave of facts and figures. There were times he stayed up late into the night with just a candle stub for light, reading and rereading the rule books he had been given.

The hardest was training his soul. He believed in the Maker. He believed in Andraste. At least, he believed in a sort of abstract way. The Chantry told him the Maker was real, and that Andraste was his bride. The Templars said it it as well. His own family had taught him this was true, and so he had accepted it the way he accepted water was wet and snow was cold and fire burned. He did not know exactly how it worked but he was comforted with the truth of it. He said his prayers, he spoke the words and sang the chant of light when he was told to. The Chantry told him he walked in the Makers light, and so he felt the sun on his skin and he was warm. They told him that he was pure of heart and mind, and so he did not fear corruption from outside or from within. He was taught obedience to to the Templar officers and the Chantry came before everything else, so he did what he was told.

When they told him to take lyrium, he did. He sat vigil, and then at the end, he got his first dose. It made him feel powerful. It made him feel untouchable. More than the sword in his hand or the shield at his side. Taking lyrium was something his superiors ordered, the first time. After that, the lyrium issued the command, there was a pull inside of him.

When the Circles began to fall, he tried to follow the orders still coming in. He went where they made him, did what he was told. He was there till the end. When Cassandra told him to join the Inquisition, he did that. Because that was the order that seemed to make the most sense. 

“Come,” she had said. “Come and be a part of something bigger and better than yourself. Be the kind of man you wanted to be when you dreamed of being a Templar.”

And of course he had come. He knew how to follow orders. Over the years he had learned to give orders almost as well, so they put him in charge of the soldiers. Standing outside in the snow, surrounded by the clashing sounds of metal on metal, blinded by the glint of sun on steel, he had felt almost at peace. He knew what to do. He taught them how to hold a sword, he told him to keep their shields up. 

In a way, the Inquisition wasn’t unlike the Templar life he had lead. He woke up every morning and wrapped himself in armor. He trained with his fellow soldiers, some of them former Templars like himself. He stopped taking the lyrium, but he still felt the command to take it, screaming in his veins. The fighting helps though, the hole in the sky is almost enough to distract him.

And then, she’s there. Eilonwy Trevelyan, the pretty little mage girl from the rich family. The first two times he sees her, she is asleep. But then she’s in the war room, dark hair shining in the candle light, and she’s the one giving him orders.

“I need you to take your forces and clear this road out near the Storm Coast. Can you do that Commander?” She’s staring at him with bright green eyes that remind him of lyrium, and he has to swallow twice before he can answer.

“Yes, of course. I can bring a small group of warriors and have the road secured right away. The bandits in that area should be easy enough to deal with.” 

“Good.” The praise makes him smile a bit and he can only hope Leliana doesn’t notice.

And so his life was calm again, in a way. The Herald is a good woman, kind and strong. She has no qualms about ordering him around. He wonders sometimes if she enjoys it, as a mage she would have been locked in a tower, surrounded by people like him, people giving her orders. But in the Inquisition she had all the power. She could take Cullen’s advice when she wanted, but she was also free to ignore him, as she did when she agreed to meet the Mage rebels in Redcliff, or when she went on an expedition to the Storm Coast and came back with Bull and his Chargers. 

Bull was unlike any man he had ever met. Not because he was Qunari, although there was a novelty to needing to look up so much when speaking, but because he was both the most straightforward person he had ever met, and the most confusing.

It had made sense to set the Chargers tents up at the gates of Haven. They would be handy as a defense force if needed, and they could use the same training dummies as the soldiers. Every morning Bull would emerge from his tent and watch as his people milled about, mending armor, mixing powder for explosive charges, making arrows. His people clearly liked him, not one day went by without at least one of them standing by his tent and laughing over a story or a drink. They shared their meals and their ale, and generally seemed like a good bunch if not a bit strange. 

A week later the Herald took off to meet a contact in Val Royeaux, taking Varric, Cassandra, and Solas with her. It seemed as though everyone in Haven had a job to do in her absence. Everyone except Bull. The Qunari ran drills with his second in command, Krem, in the mornings, and then seemed to have nothing better to do for the rest of the day besides hang around Haven’s single tavern. Three nights in a row Cullen heard the Chargers inside, singing and telling stories, and occasionally Bull’s booming laugh, louder than anything else, when he walked by. 

The fourth night, he stopped outside to listen. Someone inside the bar was singing, and it sounded as though one of the refugees or soldiers had brought in a fiddle to the camp. Inside the little tavern, the world sounded safe and happy, totally safe from the war happening right outside the gates. He hung around outside, the snow falling around him, and just listened for a moment. He could imagine, if he tried, what it would be like to just walk in. He could order a mug of ale, and sit with the other soldiers. He could get warm, and listen to their stories and jokes, and pretend not to notice the way the barmaid blushed when he smiled. There was no reason not to go in, but he found he couldn’t get his boots to move, even to walk away.

“You okay there Commander?”

The voice, warm as the fire inside, made him jump in a decidedly un-Templar way.

“Ah, yes, yes, I’m fine.” He turned to find The iron Bull standing in front of the closed door of the tavern, head cocked slightly as he regarded him.

“Were you coming in for a drink?” Bull shifted slightly, making room for Cullen to walk past him.

“No,” Cullen hesitated, unsure how to explain why he was lurking outside in the snow. “I was just…”

Bull smiled then, a nicer smile than Cullen had been expecting. “You look like you could use one.”

Cullen bristled slightly. He didn’t need a drink. He needed lyrium. Or a good night's sleep for the first time in weeks. Or maybe, maybe he just needed the giant hole in the sky to go away, and for mages and templars to stop killing each other, and the darkspawn to go away forever. He needed a lot, but a drink wasn’t going to fix much.

“No, thank you.” He couldn’t help being polite, even when angry. He was a Chantry boy through and through. He finally found the willpower to turn, boots crunching in the snow as he headed back down to his tent. 

“Maybe next time!”


End file.
